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She remembers the first time she allowed someone to hold her heart. They were oh so gentle, their fingers brushing across every single vein and artery within her. They never squeezed, nor left a single scratch. She trusted them with her life.
Yet, she still yanked her heart back. Gentleness could never penetrate the pericardium she had spent years perfecting. It wasn’t cruel enough; it never would be. She was angry that, despite how long she rested her heart in their hands, they had merely touched the surface. Even more so because she had lost all she had ever longed for.
She recognizes this, of course. But, there is special comfort in self-destruction. She thinks, maybe it’s better to ruin herself than anyone else.